


Baby, Hold On To Me

by deHavilland



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s05e06 I Believe The Children Are Our Future, M/M, Toy Castiel, Transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-24
Updated: 2012-09-26
Packaged: 2017-11-14 23:00:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/520408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deHavilland/pseuds/deHavilland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucifer is out and about, apocalypsing up the world, but while their devil-detecting angel radar has been rendered a plastic toy, the Winchesters are out of luck. Oh, and Dean might just be falling in love with the little guy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dean reaches gingerly out for the figure on the ground before the mantelpiece, tossed there amid the other flotsam and jetsam hurled about in the demonic battle that had just ensued. His fingers graze the cool plastic with hesitance and as though at risk of harming the small statue, he closes his hand very gently around the tiny body. Raising it to eye level, he holds back a wince. “Look, uh, he’s kind of a buddy of mine,” Dean tries to keep the slight tremor of worry that he feels out of his voice as he peers down at the eleven year old, assuming his usual bravado. “Is there any way you could turn him back?”

The responding look on the little boy’s face is enough to send Dean’s heart plummeting miles downwards into his stomach when he answers flatly, “He tried to kill me.”

The worst part is that this is true. If Dean had known when he and Sam parted ways with Castiel earlier that the angel was going to go through with his mission of ganking the Antichrist alone, he might have tried harder to dissuade him. The fact of the matter is, he hadn’t known that Cas was going to attempt the killing – and there’s absolutely no doubt in anyone’s mind that that was the angel’s intent. The figure itself, knife raised high in its tight, plastic grip is proof enough of that. Therefore Dean doesn’t bother to argue with the boy’s comment, though his mind turns over frantically in his head, flipping over itself in an attempt to find a way to persuade Jesse to return the angel to normal.

“Right.” Dean decides to switch tactics, smiling nervously. “Uh, but he’s a good guy. He was just confused.” Almost before the comment is entirely out of his mouth, he wishes he could bite it back, wincing. If someone had tried to throw such a transparent lie at him as a kid – which had happened, on occasion – Dean would have taken it a lot worse than Jesse does.

Instead of calling him out, however, the boy doesn’t respond, only offering the Winchester a solemn look that says he knows better than that and Dean doesn’t press.

“Okay, it’s been a long night. We’ll... talk about it later.” As much as he hates feigning this indifference towards his friend. Dean gives the Castiel figure a short, lingering glance and places him back on the now cracked mantelpiece, hoping against hope that the kid will change his mind soon.

The spell, or whatever it is that Jesse did, can’t hold out forever right? Dean wants to believe that at some point in the next couple of minutes, Castiel is simply going to break free of it, his angelic grace overcoming whatever power the Antichrist might have. It’s a fantastic notion and one that, as the seconds tick by proves to be an entirely fruitless one. If Cas really could simply reverse the spell on his own, certainly he would have done so by now.

Things change tracks when Sam takes over and Dean forgets to be worried for a few minutes as they appeal to the kid’s higher senses in an effort to win him over to their side of the impending apocalypse. For a few minutes it looks like Jesse’s interested and Dean is thrilled with the notion of the kid joining them – and hopefully fixing Cas – but just when he thinks that they have him playing for their team, things, as they so often do in Winchesterland, go awry.

His worry returns full force a half hour later when Jesse disappears without a trace, leaving no indication of coming back to return Castiel to his true form any time soon. Or... at all.

“Hi, Bobby,” Sam grimaces into the phone when Bobby’s response by way of greeting seems to be a disparaging ‘what did you two idjits do now?’ Dean can’t hear the older man’s side of the conversation, but he can read his brother’s expression and it brings a smile to his own face as he eases the Impala skilfully into the motel parking lot. If anyone has the resources to reverse the spell or hoodoo or mojo or whatever on Cas, it’s Bobby.

Dean listens in on as much of the phone call as he can reasonably understand as he backs the car into its designated parking space near their ground floor room. By now he’s used to listening without commenting – the person on the other end of the phone generally can’t hear his under breath mutterings anyway – but there are an awful lot of things he’d like to put his two cents in about as Sam explains their meeting with the Antichrist and subsequent problem.

By the end of it all, he can practically hear Bobby shaking his head incredulously over the phone.

“So you’re saying we have to find the kid and get Cas turned back into a real boy?”

Dean groans and throws the Impala into ‘park’. It’s the answer he’s been dreading ever since Sam pulled out his phone in the first place. They’ve never dealt with the Antichrist before, and though the idea of a human-demon union doesn’t seem too farfetched – that skanky demon-blood dealer, anyone? – it certainly seems as though Jesse is the only one of his kind out there.

“Alright, well, we’ll see what we can do to track him down. In the meantime, if you should happen to come across anything – thanks, Bobby. Yeah we’ll keep in touch. Bye.” Sam jams his cell phone back into his pocket and runs a hand over his mouth, massaging his jaw in thought. He twists in his seat to face his brother. “Dean – “

“Yeah, I heard.” Dean makes a face, “We gotta find Jesse and get him to magic Cas back into Cas.” He tries to mask the frustration in his voice by coupling the statement with the action of throwing open the front door and climbing out of the Impala. The ploy doesn’t work nearly as well as he had thought it would and just leaves Sam sitting alone in the passenger’s seat with an expression that says Dean’s an idiot.

Stupid bitch.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” His brother’s voice holds just a hint of pretention as Sam opens the door and nods meaningfully at the dashboard, a hint of – of something in his eyes.

Dean could punch him right then. Instead, with a grimace, he lumbers back to the driver’s side and leans over the seat, snatching up the Castiel figure he had carelessly left sitting in the front window. He’d put him on the dash at first both to keep an eye on him and to downplay Sam’s teasing remarks about having an angel in his pocket. Figures that regardless of whatever he does with the angel, his brother will find a way to be flippant about it. He slips Cas into his coat pocket and straightens to face the giant in question. “What?”

Sam grins. “Nothing.”

When they enter the dingy motel room, Dean throws himself down onto his bed, releasing a loud huff of breath. It’s been a long, frustrating day – night? – and though they’ve made it out safe and sound, if somewhat bruised and a little worse for wear, he doesn’t really feel like they can turn in until they’ve figure out what they can do about Cas. Which, at the moment, feels an awful lot like a big, fat load of nothing. Dean rubs at his face tiredly and retrieves the figure from his pocket, giving it a pensive once-over.

“Bobby says he’ll keep his eyes out for anything that might help,” Sam is peeling his jacket off and tosses it across a chair. “In the meantime, it looks like it’s you going to be you, me and the plastic wonder angel.”

His brother grunts noncommittally and Sam’s interpretation of the response is obvious in his next comment.

“That doesn’t mean we can’t come up with some ideas of our own, though. I mean, what else is as powerful as the Antichrist?”

Dean doesn’t look up from where he’s still examining the figure. There’s no sign that Cas has changed or moved at all since they left Jesse’s house. His face is still contorted in a very Castiel-like grimace, his celestial blade still held high overhead. If Cas is even technically in there, it certainly looks like he can’t move. “As powerful as the Antichrist... I hate the fuckers, but a witch maybe?” He looks up at Sam for approval.

His brother only shrugs, already booting up his laptop. “We’d have to find one first.” It takes a few minutes for the system to start up and the wi-fi to connect fully, but once Sam has the internet up and running he immediately gets going, fingers clacking away at the keyboard. “Demi-God, maybe?”

This earns him an eye-roll from Dean. “Yeah, because those are easier to find. While we’re at it, let’s just add actual God to the list.”

It’s Sam’s turn to roll his eyes, still typing furiously. “What about another angel? An archangel?”

Dean considers this. “I guess it’s possible, but if Cas can’t break free from the inside, do you think one of those feathery dicks can do it from the outside?”

“Dean, you know – “ Dean grimaces. It’s that tone. The placating, little brother, ‘I love you, but’ attitude that he can’t stand even on a good day. “ – I’m just trying to make suggestions here. Even if one of these things can reverse what Jesse did, we’d still have to find them and even then...” He leaves the sentence hanging and Dean knows that Sam doesn’t really hold out any hope for changing Cas back without Jesse. And why should he, anyway? Other than the obvious need for Castiel to help them in tracking down and fighting Lucifer, Sam doesn’t really have any other reasons for needing the angel to be whole again.

Not the way Dean does.

The thought makes him question himself, but Dean knows that lately the angel has become more than merely a friendly ally in their fight against the apocalypse. In a way he, like Sam, is Dean’s responsibility. Ever since his miraculous resurrection at the hands of God – maybe? – Castiel has been spending more time with Dean than ever and in starting to get to know the angel better, he’s finding himself understanding the angel as well. He’s starting to get Castiel’s insecurities and little idiosyncrasies. Somewhere in the past couple of months, the angel and his complete and utter naiveté in regards to human existence have become downright endearing.

So yeah, of course Dean feels like he needs to watch out for the angel. As long as Cas is playing on their turf, he could use all the help he can get. Leaving him trapped as some angelic hood ornament doesn’t sit well with Dean. At all.

Even so, given the angel is Dean’s problem and not Sam’s, his brother’s mild indifference makes him unreasonably angry. Jamming the figure back into his pocket, he tosses his coat haphazardly onto the floor and rises to his feet. “I’m gonna take a shower.”

Sam grunts, apparently engrossed in whatever web page he’s reading which, as Dean moves past him, appears to be his email.

It’s enough to make Dean use up all the hot water. 

* * *

 

When Dean has finally had enough of banging his head on the faucet in the motel’s painfully undersized shower stall, he throws a thin towel around his hips and strides out of the bathroom. He’ll let his taller brother try his luck in there and --

“Woah, what are you doing with that?”

Sam looks up from where he’s been examining the Castiel figure, turning the little plastic body over in his hands. “Him, Dean,” he answers without releasing the angel. There’s no sense of goading in his voice now, he’s dead serious. “With him. This is Cas. I don’t know how much of this he’s conscious of, but it’s him and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t appreciate just being stuffed in your coat pocket.”

“There’s worse places,” Dean grumbles, reaching out to pluck the figure out of Sam’s grasp. There’s something almost perverse about the way his brother’s hands dwarf the little angel and Dean can’t even begin to explain the sudden surge of protectiveness he feels for Cas. Whether the angel is conscious or not.

It’s Castiel’s own fault that he’s in this predicament anyway. Because, really, going after the Antichrist like that was a stupid plan. The kid could unravel the fabric of the universe with his mind. One little angel of the Lord with a celestial blade didn’t really stand a chance. Dean knows Castiel’s actions were well-intentioned – in that ‘sacrifice one for the greater good of all’ sort of way that the higher-ups in Heaven always seem to think is so very logical – but really? Stupid.

“Jeez, Dean, didn’t Dad teach you about sharing?”

“Taught me how to load a .45,” Dean answers, flippantly, putting the figure down on his bedside table with car before plopping down onto the bed himself. “Guess I sort of zoned out when he started on with the touchy feely sharing crap. You taking a shower?”

Sam wrinkles his nose, frowning. The expression reminds Dean explicitly of his brother at a much younger age. “That depends. Did you save me any hot water?”

“Nope.” Flashing his brother a winning smile, Dean flicks on the TV. Flipping through the motel’s somewhat limited selection of channels yields a promising rerun of some cartoon he and Sam had watched as kids. With a sly grin, he pitches up the volume and reaches out to angle the Castiel figure so that it too can see the television screen from its perch on the bedside table. “Check this out, Cas. Hilarious. Consider it a lesson in human entertainment.”

If Sam finds the fact that Dean is watching a kid’s show with a – to all appearances – inanimate object, he says nothing and merely resigns himself to a cold shower, at least it’s not porn. When he comes back into the room ten minutes later, drenched, freezing and with a sizable lump on his skull from bashing it against the shower head, Dean and Cas are still watching the show, though it’s obvious that his brother is starting to wear down. The physical stress of having been tossed around and pinioned against a wall earlier is beginning to get to Sam, too. Once he manages to dig out a pair of hopefully clean pajama pants from the bag of clothing brought in from the Impala, he flicks off the motel room lights and turns back the sheets.

In the bed next to his, Dean takes this as his cue to turn off the television, and rolls over onto his side. “I set the alarm for nine.”

“Alright.” Sam climbs into his own bed and lets out a soft breath of air, rubbing his eyes with one hand as he uses the other to pull the covers up. “I guess tomorrow we can see what we can do about tracking down Jesse.”

On his side of the room, Dean is silent. He’s not stupid, he got a good look at the kid’s bedroom. He saw the posters plastered to the walls. The ocean, the surfers. Australia. It’s a lead, sure. Trouble is, Australia? Yeah, it’s a big place. And there’s no telling how long Jesse will even stay there. It’s worse than looking for a needle in a haystack. It’s looking for a needle in a haystack, in a barn filled with hundreds of other haystacks, oh and the needle? It can teleport between them at will. “Sam...”

“Well, maybe if we keep tabs on his parents? They’re not going to just read that note he left and then let their eleven year old kid run away, right? If we – “

“Sam.”

“Yeah, but Dean – “

“Sam, shut up.” The gruff curl to Dean’s tone is so heavy that for once his brother does as he’s told, mouth snapping shut in surprise, any and all comebacks drying up in his mouth. “Look, I’m tired. You’re tired. We aren’t going to find Jesse unless he wants to be found which, face it, he doesn’t. So unless the kid shows up waving a white flag, we’re on our own. So drop it.”

Wisely, Sam chooses not to respond.

Dean rolls over and away from Sam, facing towards Castiel on the bedside table. His vision is starting to swim with tiredness and as the shape of the figure begins to warp itself in the darkness, he closes his eyes and settles into a more comfortable position. As much as he feels like he’s abandoning the angel, Dean simply has no other solutions. “Tomorrow we go back to looking for Lucifer. Cas is – Cas is just – He’s out, Sam. He’s out.”

A tense silence descends over the room as the ramifications of this set in. They’re going to have to do this without angelic help.

They’re screwed.

Sam opens his mouth to say something. An affirmation, a reassurance, even he isn’t sure. But whatever might come pouring of his mouth is cut off by Dean’s rough, “Goodnight, Sam.” 

* * *

 

The following morning, Dean is awake before Sam, already fully dressed and packing away what little they’ve brought with them into the motel room before his brother has even climbed out of bed. An outside observer would take Sam’s professorial character and meticulous care for a healthy diet and assume him to be the morning person. The notion of this makes Dean laugh every time. Sam, baby of the family that he is, has always been the last one up in the morning. While his father and brother pack or prep, he has always gained a little extra shut eye for himself and Dean’s never begrudged him this though it’s always meant he needed to be the one in charge of breakfast. Just another example of necessity forcing habit, and truthfully Dean likes those few minutes of Dean-time each morning and today is no exception.

Especially since this morning’s wake-up is accompanied with the unwanted remembrance of the fact that their angelic comrade isn’t quite so angelic at present.

Castiel, Sam notices once he’s awake enough to remember the angel as well, has been moved to sit atop the otherwise cleared off motel room table. He makes a mental note to himself to ensure that the angel isn’t accidentally forgotten, which, knowing Dean, is a possibility. 

“You ready to go or what?” Dean is watching his brother with the same, steadfast amusement he bestows upon him every morning. It’s as though he finds pre-coffee-Sam nothing more than an entertainment.

“Yeah, lemme just get dressed.”

Dean grins broadly and grabs their shared duffel bag of clothing, hefting it over his shoulder. As he moves towards the door, he scoops up the plastic Castiel and carefully stows him inside his coat pocket. “Just temporary, buddy, you can have a front row seat once we get out to the Impala.”

Sam looks up in confusion. “What?”

His brother has the good grace to look a little flustered as he continues towards the door. “Talkin’ to Cas, stupid. He might be conscious, you know.”

Sam immediately regrets putting that thought into Dean’s head.

It only gets worse as the morning drags on. Dean has placed the Castiel figure on the dashboard again, suggesting with a smirk that they get the angel a hula skirt and a ukulele before jokingly asking Cas what he thinks.

Unsurprisingly, the angel has no response.

The little quips that Dean directs towards the plastic figure are – Sam’s pretty certain – more than he would have ever said had the angel actually been with them. When did his brother start becoming so chummy with Castiel anyway? Frankly, the whole thing freaks him out, from Dean’s one-sided conversations with the figurine to Castiel’s stern little expression, molded flawlessly into plastic. It’s weird.

They stop for breakfast in some podunk town, south of nowhere. As far as Sam can tell, Dean’s just driving, no particular route in mind and he’s okay with that. They’ll stumble across something of interest sooner or later. They always do.

The diner Dean pulls the Impala to a stop in front of is so very generic that neither brother comments on it. It just is. When Sam climbs out of the car first, however, hands jammed into his pockets while he waits for Dean to grab Cas and join him on the curb, he can’t help but ask, “Are you just going to carry that around with you everywhere now?”

His brother doesn’t answer, pushing open the door to the little diner and intentionally neglecting to hold it open for Sam as he walks through. It’s a childish form of retaliation to Sam’s goading, but Dean does it anyway. He can’t explain the surge of companionable protectiveness he’s been feeling for Castiel lately simply because he doesn’t understand or have the words for it himself. The one thing he can express – that he’s actually starting to miss his angel friend – isn’t something he’s especially keen to actually say out loud. Especially to Sam.

Picturing the angel’s softened expressions and wide, impossibly blue eyes makes Dean want to reach into his pocket and wrap a comforting hand around the figure resting there. Comforting to himself or to Castiel he doesn’t know and he doesn’t – feel up the angel, that is – because there’s no need to give Sam more fuel for the fire. Instead, he simply slides into an empty booth, leaving Cas in his pocket.

He won’t deny, not to himself, anyway, that somehow the thought of never seeing the angel again leaves him feeling more than a little sick to his stomach.

“So what’s the plan here, Dean?” Sam asks after the waitress has walked away with their orders. It’s more conversational than accusing when he adds, “Are we just going to drive around all day? What are we doing?”

Dean opens his mouth to reply but is saved from answering by the sudden, cacophonous entrance of a group of teenagers. They’re local kids, obvious by the fact that they excitedly bustle together familiarly towards a corner booth, the only one that seems big enough to seat their number. Both Sam and Dean twist in their seats to watch the group move through the diner, neither of them missing the way the kids seem to be rallying around the person at the centre of their cluster, the one bearing the badges of some sort of fight, if the blackened eye and bloody shirt are any evidence.

The brothers exchange a quick, knowing glance and Sam tilts farther back in his seat to better listen in on the conversation.

“ – threw him clear across the room. Like something right out of a movie,” one of the teens was proclaiming, animatedly, hand gestures punctuating each word, “I always knew that place was messed up.”

Dean shoots his brother a meaningful look as though to say that he knew all along that this particular stop was going to yield a hunt.

“ – don’t care how creepy the Francey barn is, there’s no such thing as ghosts and people don’t just get thrown across rooms.”

Except that, in Sam and Dean’s world, they did.

“Poltergeist?”

Dean rolls his eyes, “You think?”

Both brothers rise simultaneously just as the waitress returns with their orders.

“Sorry about this,” Sam smiles apologetically as he brushes past her. “Family emergency.”

Two steps behind his brother, Dean eyes the steaming plate of pancakes. “Any chance of getting that to go?”

“Dean!” 

* * *

 

The problem with having a hunt so easily thrust upon them means making up the legwork in an afternoon spent in the town’s dusty, local library, which really isn’t the sort of thing that Dean enjoys doing. He spends most of the day sitting next to Sam, who is avidly searching through the library’s – conveniently – electronic archives, fiddling with the Castiel figurine. He’s pretty certain he knows every inch of the little plastic figure by the time he sets it down on the computer desk and turns to his brother.

“I’m gonna take a leak.”

Sam rolls his eyes. Truthfully, he had half wanted to simply tell Dean to take the angel and get a room already if it meant not having his brother hanging over his shoulder making doe eyes at the little figure – ew – and being generally irritating. “I just have to print this stuff out and then I think we’re good to go.” If he’s sort of rushed the research stage on this one, it’s entirely Dean’s fault.

“Great,” his brother claps a friendly hand down on his shoulder and heads off in the direction of the library bathroom as Sam finishes neatening up the document of relevant information and hits ‘print’.

When Dean returns to the computer two minutes later, Sam is over by the printer.

And Castiel is nowhere to be seen.

Biting back the sense of panic that he feels at this revelation – he needs to watch out for the angel, after all – Dean joins his brother at the printer. He’s going to tear Sam a new one for a prank that was unfortunately successful in getting a rise out of him. Dean keeps his tone even and almost disinterested as he holds out a hand expectantly, “Way to scare the crap out of me, dude. When I realized I left Cas sitting there, I was like – “

Sam’s face is completely blank and Dean stops.

“You... you did pick up Cas before you came over here, didn’t you?” His eyes widen, “Tell me you didn’t just leave him sitting there, right?”

The look on his brother’s face is guilty confirmation of this and Dean is off like a shot, back to the computer to shuffle through the papers still sitting there, peering behind the motherboard and along the ground. The computer is in severe risk of dismantlement as he tears at the keyboard and twists the screen around. His earlier realization holds firm, however, and Castiel is nowhere to be found.

“Fuck!” Dean ignores the annoyed looks he’s receiving from the people around him and with the exception of one, tired-looking mother trying to manage three overactive children, no one bothers to say anything to him. Probably because she does it for them.

“Excuse me, but there are children here.” She is scowling and the comment draws Dean’s attention to her kids, one of whom is playing with a familiar looking action figure.

He doesn’t bother to make introductions or combat the woman’s argument, instead making a beeline straight for the little girl, like a man possessed. Dean bends down to her level, ignoring how weird this must look to the kid’s mother, whose mouth is hanging open in stunned shock. “Uh, hey, kiddo, I think you’ve got something there that doesn’t belong to you.” He nods at the figure clutched too tightly in her small hands, his fingers itching to simply pry Castiel away from her and never let the angel out of his sight again.

She peers at him with soft, hazel eyes and the guilty look of a kid who knows that they’ve taken something that isn’t theirs. In this case, an angel of the Lord.

“What are you – “ The mother watches in outrage as her daughter looks down at her shoes and hands the toy over to Dean.

Relief washes away the thick tendrils of fear that had at some point wrapped themselves around his heart and Dean smiles down at the girl, tucking Castiel into his pocket, but leaving a hand possessively wrapped around him. “You know, if it had been anything else, I probably would have let you keep it. But this guy, he’s kinda special.”

He offers her one last grin and, with a wary glance at her mother, who looks torn between calling the cops and questioning her child, bears a hasty retreat.

When he arrives in front of Sam, his brother stares at him with the most annoying, knowing glance that Dean has ever been on the receiving end of.

“Oh, fuck off.” 

* * *

 

“Ngh,” Dean draws his legs up tighter to his body, further tangling the already rumpled sheets around him. Sweat glistens off of his back as he writhes on the bed, already soaking his hair and dripping down his forehead in watery beads. This particular night-time assault is quiet. Aside from the mess his twisting body makes of the bed sheets and the occasional grunt of remembered pain, Dean is silent.

When he wakes, the details of the dream are, as always, foggy and disjointed, but the fear still sears through his mind, though the memory of what he is so afraid of is long gone.

Eyes snapping open, Dean’s entire body is stiff, frozen. It takes a moment for his muscles to begin responding again, but as soon as they decide to cooperate, he reaches up with a shaky hand to wipe at his brow. After a deep breath or two, he turns, peering cautiously at his brother in the bed opposite.

He hates it when his nightmares wake Sam.

On this occasion, anyway, his brother has slept soundly through Dean’s tossings and turnings, the sasquatch nothing more than a giant, horizontal lump under a pile of blankets.

Secure in the fact that Sam’s sleeping, Dean rolls over to his opposite side, too warm now to care about the fact that his own sheets are strewn across both the bed and the floor.

A passing car in the motel parking lot illuminates the room briefly with its headlights and Dean’s wandering gaze falls on the grim little figure perched on his bedside table. Impulsively, he reaches out to grab it, drawing the angel close enough to examine even once the light of the car is gone. 

“Angels are watching over me, huh?” He smiles ruefully at the figure, placing him back on the bedside table. “Probably not what mom had in mind.” Dean closes his eyes, tired enough to give sleep a second shot before he and Sam have to be awake in a couple of hours to head out to the allegedly haunted barn.

Turning his head into the pillow, he spares the figure one last look. “ ‘Night, Cas.” 

* * *

 

Several hours later, Dean whistles cheerfully as he pops up the Impala’s trunk, rolling back the false floor covering their weapons cache. It feels like forever since their last salt ‘n burn, and he’s looking forward to the assured simplicity of this one immensely.

James Francey, Sam’s research shows, lost a fair yield of crop to bad weather one season about thirty-six years ago. Rather than deal with the farm’s imminent failure, he hung himself out in the barn.

In comparison to all of the crap they’ve been dealing with lately, this one is so easy that Dean almost considers going in alone with nothing but his lighter and a shovel to try and make a challenge out of it.

His dad would have killed him.

Now, with both Sam and Dean dangling in mid-air, hanging in the invisible grip of not one poltergeist, but two, John Winchester is just going to have to get in line.

Though Sam’s gun was pulled from his hands in the initial struggle, and unfortunately dropped into the exposed well in the center of the barn, Dean has managed to hold on to his still, though with the way he and his brother have been positioned, he’s unable to get a clear shot at either of the ghosts.

It was a stupid mistake, really. Truly stupid. The research said that James Francey had hung himself and they had therefore assumed that the ghost responsible for the attacks was him. The bulk of the problem lay in what the research didn’t say, which was that it was Francey’s failed crops as well as his wife’s affair with a neighbor that had driven him to suicide and that his death had left her with more debt than she could handle. Their mutual hatred for each other and the obviously intense rage was what was fuelling this particular fight now.

Really, Sam and Dean hadn’t stood a chance. The stupid ghosts had had them as soon as they set foot in the barn, and now Mr. and Mrs. Francey were having some sort of argument with each other, using the Winchesters as both human shields and living projectiles. The third time Dean is launched forward in the direction of one of the ghosts, he feels as though he’s going to hurl, and probably would, too, if he’d eaten anything recently. Instead, he is simply plagued by the painful churning in his stomach as he misses Francey entirely and is thrown against one of the walls.

The impact is enough to knock the wind fully out of his chest, but what has his heart skipping a beat is the sound of something small and plastic falling out of his pocket and skittering across the barn floor. God help him, Dean doesn’t want to look and see where Cas has ended up, but his brother’s sharp intake of breath has him peering about them frantically.

There.

The reason for Sam’s gasp is perilously obvious once Dean’s eyes find the figure...

... perched precariously at the very lip of the open well.

An inch closer and Cas would have slid right into the gaping maw and down into the murky darkness below.

Dean’s struggles renew tenfold as he tries to fight off the invisible force still holding him firmly in place. All it would take is one ill timed movement for something to knock Castiel into the well and Dean is not about to sit by and idly let that happen.

He wrenches at the ghost’s invisible grip, seeing Sam do the same out of the corner of his eye. Both brothers are grappling to free themselves when one of the ghosts’ interest shifts. Dean sees the woman’s eyes track from her husband and over to Dean, then down to Castiel. He figures that the fact that Cas has come from his pocket is what’s attracted her attention.

“Back off, bitch,” his voice is nothing more than a low snarl as he watches her image flicker, then disappear. She shows up again a few feet to the left, in the space next to the well. “Come and get a piece of someone your own fucking size.”

The ghost ignores him completely and Dean realizes with unease that her husband has disappeared as well. Either she hasn’t noticed this or doesn’t care, bending down to physically pick up the figure rather than levitate it towards her as she has done with Sam and Dean. Somehow, this makes things worse, the thought of those ghostly fingers holding Castiel in their grip sets Dean’s stomach churning worse than the roller coaster ride his body has just been telekinetically propelled through.

“Dean,” Sam’s voice holds a warning edge to it, and Dean knows his brother is watching the proceedings with almost as much horror as he himself is.

“I know,” Dean answers before continuing to yell at the poltergeist, trying to divert her attention to him and away from Castiel. It doesn’t work. The ghost continues to ignore him, though it’s clear that she’s beginning to lose interest in the angel. Dean doesn’t miss the way her grip tightens ever so slightly and he knows that it would literally take nothing at all for her to crush the plastic in her hands.  
The ghost’s disappearance happens completely without warning or explanation and both Sam and Dean plummet to the ground, the invisible power holding them in place gone with the poltergeist.

A half second later there is a faint splash.


	2. Chapter 2

“Here.”

Dean’s world goes dark for a moment as his brother dumps an old horse blanket over his head. It doesn’t have the greatest smell in the world, but it’s warm and it cuts the chill that’s started to set into his shivering limbs. “Thanks.” He pulls the blanket more tightly around his wet clothes, then a takes a corner of it in hand and uses it to dry off the figure he’s holding, carefully smoothing the coarse fabric over the angel’s plasticized body with hands that shake.

“Close one, huh, Cas?” He says softly, fondly, dropping the corner and bringing the figure closer to his face to better examine.

It doesn’t look as though the untimely dip in the well has had any ill-effects on the angel, now that Castiel has been dried off. Dean hadn’t even stopped to think about it before throwing himself down into the hole after the angel. He hadn’t bothered to consider how deep it might be or what else might be down there or what would happen if one of the ghosts should return while he was underwater. Now, with the figure back in his hands, he realizes just how stupid his actions were.

But he doesn’t regret them for a moment.  
Still clutching Cas, he looks up at Sam. His brother is standing stiffly, hands in his pockets as though he has just intruded on some sort of moment.

Which, Dean realizes, isn’t entirely untrue. And when had that happened?

“We still need to do the salt and burn part of this salt and burn, huh?” He lightens the mood, grinning. At least his brother hasn’t started with his teasing and his knowing glances again. Knowing what, exactly, Dean doesn’t know himself.

Sam nods, rubbing at his stiff neck. “Yeah, there should be a family cemetery around the back. The records say they were both interred there.”

“Alright,” Dean sheds the blanket, ignoring for the moment his still wet clothes. Carefully, he places Cas back in his pocket, checking quickly to make sure that this time the figure is a little more secure. “Let’s go.”

The rest of the hunt goes entirely without excitement – which is exactly how the first half of the hunt should have gone. Neither ghost puts in another appearance, even when Dean sets their aged corpses alight and tired, battered, but successful, the brothers return to their motel room.

It’s incredibly late – early? – when they tiredly flop into their respective beds, Sam only barely taking the time to kick off his shoes and Dean gently perching Cas in place on the bedside table. “Nearly lost you today, buddy,” he whispers to the figure as he removes his own shoes. “Let’s, uh, let’s not do that again.”

He grabs the angel and brings him closer. “Ever.”

If Dean falls asleep with the figure clutched firmly in his hand, it’s only because he’s too tired to stick him back on the table. 

 

* * *

 

Two more ghosts and a geographically misinformed kelpie later and the Winchesters aren’t any closer to either returning Cas to normal or locating Lucifer. The devil, it seems, is just as good at hiding as the Antichrist, and no amount of news-scouring or phone calls to Bobby has done anything to rectify this.

The evening of their tangle with the kelpie, Sam suggests taking a break and visiting the local dive bar. It’s unusual for his brother to be the one to suggest such a thing, but Dean is never one to turn down an excursion that promises pretty girls and booze.

Mick’s is pretty standard as far as middle American bars go. It has just the right balance between welcome and standoffishness that accompanies its brethren in most other small towns. The music, if a little too country for the Winchesters’ tastes, isn’t loud enough to be an annoyance and there is just the right amount of people to keep the place lively.

Dean makes himself at home in a booth near the billiards table, scoping out the potential for a quick hustle while Sam grabs their drinks.

“Oh, he’s cute.”

Dean looks up at the pretty girl leaning casually over the table. She’s exactly his type, which is to say pleasantly buxom, openly friendly and decidedly female. If her dark hair and blue eyes do anything for him, it’s only because they suit her and most definitely not because they remind him of anyone else. “What?” He asks dumbly, before realizing that she’s peering at the figure he’s been unconsciously turnPicture by Phaelsafe/Moon-Glaiveing over in his hands. “Oh. Yeah, I guess.”

“Can I see him?”

He hesitates. Since the fall down the well, no one’s touched Cas except Dean and a part of him wants to keep it that way. But really, the angel could just be his – no pun intended – wingman here. If he just hands over the figure, he can probably get a number and a warm body to sleep with tonight.

Some part of his traitorous self can’t help but ask if it’s worth momentarily entrusting Cas to this stranger. This whole thing reminds him of the ‘den of iniquity’ he had dragged the angel to only a couple of weeks ago. While this girl is certainly no prostitute, the wide-eyed terror on Cas’ face during his first encounter with that one at the brothel is the expression Dean imagines would be on his face right now. And he’d give anything to see that again.

“What, no introduction? You only want me for my toys?” Dean beams at the girl, casually sliding Castiel safely back into his pocket and out of sight. Only because he doesn’t really need a wingman.

Fortunately, the girl laughs at this. Clearly she wasn’t really all that interested in Castiel, it was just a line. “I’m Amelia.”

He nearly winces at this, the irony of that name not lost on him. “Dean.”

She opens her mouth to respond when Sam returns, sliding his brother’s drink towards him as he scoots into his own seat, glancing at Amelia. “Hi.”

“... and this is my brother, Sam. Sam, Amelia.” Struck suddenly with an inexplicably overwhelming urge to get out of here, Dean rises. “I’ll be right back.”

If Amelia minds her first choice for the evening getting up and leaving the table, she seems perfectly mollified by his brother’s presence, going so far as to take Dean’s vacated seat to speak with Sam as he heads out to the parking lot.

Dean hates it when people sit on his car. The hood of the Impala is not a chair, nor is it for leaning on, but this is a peeve that he always seems to forget when it comes down to him doing the same thing. He does it now, leaning against the hood of the car casually, enjoying the slight bite of chill in the evening air. The bar itself casts off enough light that it’s not truly dark out here, but if he looks up he can see the stars more clearly than in any city.

With a sigh, he pulls Cas out of his pocket and sets him down on the hood next to him. The silence between them is almost companionable, as though the angel is quiet by choice. Dean knows better and yet manages to pretend that this is just a lull in conversation, like so many they’ve had before, and that any minute now that grave, rough voice is going to tell him that Lucifer is up to something, that Dean has to save the world.

The figure, of course, says none of these things.

“Dammit, Cas,” Dean breaks the silence, finally, lurching back up to his feet and whirling to stare at the figure. “You’re in there somewhere, aren’t you? I know you are! Fight it, man, use your Grace! Something!” He falls silent, expectant, watching the figure and hoping against all logical reason that any second now Cas – his Cas – is going to break free.

He doesn’t.

Dean’s next expletive is more of a sigh than anything else. “Fuck.”

“Dean?”

Sam is manoeuvring his way towards him through the parking lot, no sign of Amelia. Knowing his brother, Dean thinks that probably he scared her away with his nerdiness or something. Not that Dean really cares though, it’s entirely his brother’s loss. He knew even before she came up to the table and asked to hold Cas that he wasn’t really interested in picking up tonight anyway.

“Oh, hey,” Sam, noticing the figure, moves towards it and before Dean can protest has scooped the angel up into his oversized hands and is fiddling with the knife that Castiel is still holding high, poised to stab. “Check it out, I grabbed one of those cocktail umbrellas and I think if we can pop the knife out it’ll be really funny if – “

Castiel is snatched out of Sam’s hands before he even realizes that Dean was reaching for him.

“Woah, Dean, I just – “ The dark look in his brother’s eyes is enough to shut Sam up completely. 

* * *

 

Another nightmare interrupts Dean’s sleep and although as much as he hates waking up sweaty and terrified, he’s starting to get used to these night-time assaults on his subconscious. It’s been weeks since the last time he did get a full night’s sleep.

When he wakes from this one, panting and sore from where his flailing limbs have collided with furniture, his eyes are drawn not to Sam’s bed as they so usually are, but instead to his bedside table. His heart stops, breath catching in his throat when he realizes that Cas is gone.

He sits up, quickly, peering around the room in the hopes of finding a trench coat-garbed stalker-angel watching from the shadows, but there isn’t one.

Head whip-panning to the opposite side of the room, he realizes there’s no Sam either. His heart sinks somewhere deep into his stomach as he takes in the room more thoroughly. There’s no Cas, no Sam, just the mess he’s made of his bed, pillows and sheets in a rumpled array strewn about him. He takes a deep, staggering breath and reaches for the pillow on the floor nearest him.

Underneath is Cas, apparently knocked off of the bedside table during his nightmare and the exhale Dean releases is full of relief.

He snatches the figure up immediately, clutching the angel tightly, a lifeline.

If he falls asleep with Castiel clutched in his hands, this time it’s intentional. 

* * *

 

Bobby leads them to - and joins them on – their next hunt. A man-witch, playing cards with peoples’ years. The idea would naturally be enough to make Dean laugh, that is until he finds himself on the losing end of a poker game. Being somewhere in the vicinity of sixty is not funny, he realizes. Thankfully, as a hunter he’s not expected to live that long.

That is, if he ever gets out of the mess that’s landed him here in the first place.

All that there is between him and this, this unnaturally advanced old-person-itis is Sam and frankly the idea is terrifying. More worrisome than the thought of Dean stuck like this forever is the thought of Sam suffering the same fate for his benefit.

What had at one time also been a flicker of hope that Patrick, the man-witch could magic Castiel back into Castiel was lost almost as soon as it had appeared, the guy was a bigger dick than all of Cas’ angel brethren put together.

Their brew to reverse Patrick’s spell had gone awry with the toothpick Sam was supposed to have provided and as Dean scours the man’s apartment in search of something – anything – that might possess even the tiniest morsel of the man’s needed DNA, he finds himself cursing Cas. Blaming the angel for not being strong enough to break free, for not being here to fix this, to hold Patrick down while Dean deals him some punches.

“Dammit, Cas!” Dean’s voice still surprises him, as it has been doing ever since his body’s rapid aging. Even if he has to stay like this forever, he’ll still probably never get used to hearing himself sound so very old. “Help a guy out here, man,” He pulls the figure out of his pocket with arthritic hands that just ache. “Please? Please.”

There. On the table. A half empty wine glass.

Surely... He lurches towards it, desperate, when the first spasm hits. It starts out as a mild pain that only serves to stop him in his tracks, then suddenly it blossoms outwards, radiating through his arms and shoulders, burning as his chest tightens uncontrollably. Chest, stomach, arms, neck, all a whirl of pain that brings Dean down to his knees. He hasn’t felt anything like this since hell, since his chest cavity literally being ripped open and his heart physically being pulled from his body.

His heart.

“No, fuck no...” The half-eaten cheeseburger should have been the first indicator. The acid reflux was nothing compared to this horrible, burning agony searing through his veins. “Cas,” he chokes, losing his grip on the figure, only barely hearing the sound of it hitting the floor when it drops.

He’s dying.

Fuck, he’s dying and he’s never going to see his brother again. He’s never going to see Bobby again.

And Cas, Cas is right. Fucking. There. And utterly useless. He can’t help Dean any more than Dean can help himself and Dean doesn’t know which part of that he’s more angry about.

“Cas... Castiel,” He reaches out, clawing for the figure, just barely wrapping his hand around it.

The pain is gone. Vanished. Vitality spreads through Dean’s body, radiating from his chest outward. If the heart attack was like liquid fire, this reversal is its icy counterpart. When the last of the chilling transformation ends, Dean has Cas clutched tightly in his hands once more and plants a heavy kiss on the top of the figure’s head.

“Ask me for a real one when you’re bigger, buddy,” He announces ecstatically, leaping back up to his feet with all the energy of his thirty-one years. “Dean Winchester is back in business!”

For good measure, he drops a second excited kiss on the angel before sliding Castiel backing into his pocket and racing for the door. 

* * *

 

There had been no one to see Dean’s moment of abandon and therefore it goes unmentioned when he is reunited with Bobby and Sam. The kiss seems to have broken a barrier of some sort, though. Now, more than ever, Dean wants his angel back to normal. Wants to know if Cas has been listening and watching this entire time, seeing the world from inside his pocket. Wants to kiss him for real and feel Cas’ soft, inexperienced lips against his own.

The revelation should be surprising, but it’s not. Dean knows he had almost kissed Castiel that night at the brothel. Then, he’d been plagued with fears that made him question himself, but now his conclusion is pretty simple.

He’s not gay.

He’s just really into Cas.

Who, if things continue the way they’ve been going, he is never going to properly see ever again.

“Hey, check this out: man killed in bear attack.”

Sam’s comment draws Dean out of his reverie, glancing up at his brother with a non-committal shrug and pursed lips. “So? Bears attack people, right? That’s a thing.”

“In his house?” The incredulous look on Sam’s face is enough to bait Dean into peering over his shoulder at the laptop screen, which is how a day later they find themselves in Wellington, Ohio.

The hunt proves to be a mildly amusing one, anyway. A distraught widow claiming to have seen the Incredible Hulk off her husband. He and Sam flip on this one and Sam ends up doing the legwork while Dean stays in the motel room and “researches”.

And damn, would he ever love to see Cas’ real reaction to Lou Ferrigno ripping through his shirt and rampaging about in green.

Facing the Castiel figure towards the screen seems like it’s as close as he’s going to get for now anyway.

“Hey,” Sam tosses his bag down as he enters, eyes flicking first to Dean, then to Cas. “I see you’ve been working hard, huh?”

Dean only grins, not bothering to hide his indiscretion. What had Sam expected anyway? Googling ‘the Hulk killed my husband’ doesn’t really turn up the most credible search results. “Find anything?”

His brother shares his findings which Dean decides lean pretty far into the Hulk’s favor.

“And I found something else at the scene,” Sam reaches into his pocket, pulling out a wad of candy wrappers which he tosses down onto the table in front of him. Dean edges Cas away from this rainstorm of garbage.

“Sure looks like we’re dealing with the Trickster, doesn’t it?” Dean’s jovial attitude and smile turn stormy as he flicks off the computer. “Good, because I’ve wanted to gank that mother since he killed me at the Mystery Spot.”

Sam is silent for a moment, scooping the wrappers into a tidier pile. His eyes fall back on Cas. “Dean, I was thinking. What if we don’t try to kill him this time?”

“Why? Because since the other times failed maybe by not killing him, the son of a bitch’ll just die?”

“What if he can fix Cas?”

There’s no hesitation, Sam just puts it all out on the table. And Dean would be lying if he said it wasn’t a blow. It seems like the most logical thing in the world. The Trickster is one of the most powerful things in the cosmos. If the Antichrist is MIA and God’s not feeling too charitable, then surely...

“Let’s go.”

Sam watches as his brother pulls on his coat, pockets Cas and heads for the door before opening his mouth to point out that they don’t even know where the Trickster is before the police scanner answers for them.

Old paper mill on route 66.

Right. 

* * *

 

Exciting and fun as getting to live within the world of Dr. Sexy MD is, Dean’s already decided that he likes his TV to stay in the TV, thank you very much. Not that he’s overly worried for himself, that is – though he wouldn’t mind getting zapped into the Playboy channel – but for Cas. With each new incarnation of himself and Sam, he can’t help but pat his pocket to ensure that the angel has followed him despite the wardrobe changes.

He’s not sure how long the Trickster expects them to play along with his ‘game’, but he hopes that Castiel makes it through to the end.

So far so good anyway.

Their fourth incarnation seems to be some sort of stupid sitcom version of their lives. Glitzy, Hawaiian motel room – a showier version of the one they’ve been staying at in Wellington – and reflexively Dean jams a hand into his pocket, closing his fingers around Cas.

“Alright, I yield.” Not the words they expected of the all too familiar man who bursts into the room, all smiles. “What have you got in your pocket there, Dean-o?” The Trickster is smiling but there is a hard glint in his eyes.

“I tried to tell you earlier, we need you to – “

“I didn’t ask you, Sam.” The Trickster eyes Dean greedily. “I asked Dean.”

In a way, this is the moment of truth. What they’ve been working towards all this time, getting the Trickster to change Cas back to normal. Yet Dean can’t help but hesitate, feeling both a little possessive and protective of his angel. His fingers tighten around the plastic, thumb rubbing what he hopes is soothingly over Cas’ back.

“Dean? I’m waiting.”

He sets his jaw and gently pulls Cas out of his pocket.

If he didn’t know better, he would have said that he could see the Trickster’s eyes widen in shock when he holds out the figure, fingers still wrapped possessively around it but allowing the demi-god a better look.

“What have you boys been getting yourselves into?”

To Dean’s relief, he shows no sign of taking Castiel for himself, only eyeing him from a distance. “Something pretty big did this little number.”

“The Antichrist,” Sam supplies at the same time that Dean asks if the Trickster can help or not.

“Oh, I can fix this,” he nods, “And I will, because who can let a brother suffer, am I right? But – “ He inclines his head petulantly, “Because you haven’t finished my game yet, I’m going to do this – “

Before Dean even realizes that his hands are empty, Cas, the real Cas, is standing next to him.

“ - And then do this.”

And like that, Cas is gone.

Dean is within inches of the Trickster’s face immediately, already feeling bereft without the angel safely tucked away in his pocket. “What did you do to him?”

The Trickster only grins. “Oh, he’s not part of the game, Dean-o. I just put him somewhere else.”

Dean lunges, but the Trickster repels him with a smirk. “Play the game, boys. And if you play it right, you might find that you don’t need your puppy dog angel bow-wow-ing at your heels. Plastic or otherwise.”

With that, he’s gone too and the Winchesters are forced to live through both an episode of CSI and Knight Rider before they see him again.

When they do, it takes all of Dean’s self control not to punch the asshole in the face, especially since a quickly thought up and somewhat last ditch plan has him trapped in a ring of holy oil and completely at their mercy.

“Where is Cas?”

Gabriel, as the Trickster has revealed himself to be, scowls in defeat. Cas is returned to them, in his full, warm, fleshy, Jimmy Novak form, but Dean ignores him for the moment, focusing instead on the archangel before him.

When he leaves the warehouse, Gabriel still trapped inside – though not for long, given the triggered sprinkler system – Dean doesn’t bother to look back to make sure Cas and his brother are following him out. He’s pretty sure they are.

Except that when Sam joins him outside, Castiel does not. He’s gone. 

* * *

 

The angel doesn’t return for two days and by then, Dean has resigned himself to the fact that he’s fucked everything up. That Cas knows everything that happened when he was trapped in plastic and doesn’t feel that way. That he doesn’t know anything about what happened and things are merely back to normal for them.

For all that Dean’s spent days praying for Cas to be back to normal, he doesn’t want normal. He wants – and it takes a lot to admit this, even to himself – he wants more than normal.

So when Castiel appears in the motel parking lot where Dean is digging about in the backseat of the Impala for a misplaced shirt, he’s resigned to bad news, an order from Heaven or some sort of other celestial rebuke.

What he doesn’t expect is the sheer depth of emotion in the angel’s bright, blue eyes. “Dean.” Cas takes a step closer to where Dean leans half in the backseat of the car.

He straightens, gaze meeting Castiel’s unflinchingly.

The angel plants himself within only a handful of inches of Dean’s face, peering up at him through the slight difference in their heights. What might be faint amusement tugs at the corner of his lips, though his brow is furrowed with concentration. “I believe I was promised a kiss. When I’m bigger.”

The angel hesitates.

“I’m bigger.”

**Author's Note:**

> Incredible, vast, glorious amounts of thanks and gratitude for the beloved Mindelan, who without ever reading a single word of this story coached it through to its completion, offering valuable insight and choice phrases and then saying she has absolutely no interest in it at all, thank you very much. I think she just wanted me to shut up about it and let her watch TV in peace.


End file.
